Man Hopes To Wake Up Limber And Fresh After First Net Session Of The Season, Where He Will Not Warm Up And Bowl Like Thommo Until Something Snaps

ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact

Under fading light tonight, a local man will be winding back the clock as he puts his body through something it didn't need or want to do.

From the French Quarter end, Ralph McManus, a local real estate agent now going through a rather existential crisis, will steam in with ice-cold muscles that've been in air-conditioned comfort all day, throw his front leg out in a violent jiggle, raise his front arm in a colossal judo chop, tuck the other behind his back, feel the side muscle stretch like a balloon being inflated for the tenth time, head cocked to the side.

Then the front foot, inside a black-on-black Kayano that's almost worn down to the sock, slams into the astroturf.

Down goes the chop, back swings the other arm in an almost roundarm style. In a shock even to himself, he lets out a Sharapova-like howl. He feels the last of the stitches snap from his index and middle finger. In the nanoseconds after the ball has left his hand, he knows it's heading to fine leg. He watches it hiss past the batsman's bottom and into the ancient chain-link.

As he pulls himself up after this Harmison-sized wide, his first ball of the night, he can feel the heat inside his side. It's probably a mild side strain, but he remembers that he's a man. A man with nothing to lose but time, money and the respect of his teammates. So he does exactly what's been described above nearly a hundred times, until his body is breaking down physically. Then it's time to bat.

First ball on a good length, on a good line. So he steps back into his crease, winds up and cross-bats the fuck out of it, off the toe. It doesn't feel very good but at least he's hitting something. The next ten are wide outside the off stump, he slashes wildly at them, missing all.

Then, when he's hot, sticky and tired, he's offered a cigarette. He takes it. Then his captain, Gelded Seahorse publican Keith Kenneth, produces some ice-cold cans of VB from the back of his Triton. They've been in the esky for 6 hours, they're atomically just above freezing. He has 4 then drives home.

Ralph watches the news, some smatterings of Stan, eats buttered bread for dinner and has five cans of Gold because fuck it's good to be back in the nets. Fuck he loves cricket. And after a shower, he drifts off to sleep hoping that he'll be limber and fresh. In 24 hours' time, he'll be googling how to best treat severe DOMS. He'll ask Google if it's bad if he's got red urine. Google will say that's bits of old muscle he's pissing out and he needs to see a doctor. He won't.

More to come.